


Jazz Hands

by poisontaster



Series: Hands [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-20
Updated: 2006-04-20
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tension breaks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jazz Hands

"…Dean… Dean, wait…"

It's possible Sam's had too much to drink; too many beers on top of way too much fatigue.

_And let's not forget the hand job at the Flying J, right? Mustn't forget that._

_Or the reciprocating one at the bar. Can't forget that either. Tired you right the fuck out._

It's also possible that Dean is pressing him into the lee of the motel staircase, one hand fumbling with Sam's belt buckle while his breath pants softly on the back of Sam's neck. The clank of the metal seems incredibly loud in the quiet, as does the gulping race of his own breath.

"Dean, the room is _right here_." Sam bites back a moan and substitutes a shaky and drawn out sigh as Dean cups him hard in front and grinds against him in back. He's been hard since Dean had come mewling all over his hand in the bar and the feel of Dean actually against him is eroding what little common sense and control he has left.

"Too far," Dean mutters against Sam's neck, damp and sending shudders of sensation all down Sam's spine. "Can't. Want you now. Wanna fuck you stupid."

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck…_ Sam's tired, and he's drunk and a part of him wants nothing more than to go face down on the latest scratchy motel blanket and _sleep_ through the whole next day, but what he _knows_ is that Dean's hands are done with his belt and zipper, and Dean's easing his jeans and boxers down over his hips and thighs, and what he's going to _do_ is let Dean fuck him here, in the shadow of the motel staircase.

"Dean," he gasps as Dean's hand works his cock roughly and Dean gnaws lightly at his shoulder, "Dean, you got something?"

_"Shit."_ Dean's forehead rests against Sam's arm, though he doesn't stop the stroke-slide of his hand. "No."

The door of their room is less than five feet away. It would be easy to tell Dean to wait, to move, and do this in privacy and warmth. As he told Dean, the room is _right there_ …

It's quite possible Dean is not the only one with a public places fetish.

"Do it," he says fast and hoarse, before he can change his mind. His hips roll, first into Dean, hard against his back and then into Dean's tight grip, biting his lip. "Just… _fuck_ …just do it."

Dean moans, soft and growling and then he's turning Sam's face and shifting to the side, his tongue thrusting urgently into Sam's mouth, simultaneously hard and soft and his hand—his warm, warm hand—slips between Sam's outspread legs. Sam whimpers into Dean's mouth as Dean slides back and forth over his perineum, gentle, insistent pressure, and then further back, one blunt finger tracing circles harder and harder until Sam's shuddering, gulping, gasping. "I'll make it good for you, Sammy," Dean promises, his ragged slurry voice running vibrato down every fucking one of Sam's nerve endings…especially the ones that run to his dick. "I swear, so fucking good…"

Abruptly, Dean's mouth is against his ear, and Dean's fingers are pushing into Sam's mouth, dirty-greedy. "Spit," Dean commands and Sam takes the fingers in, whining back in his throat and his hips thrusting in space. Dean encircles Sam's cock again, stroking firm and _too fucking slow_ , while Sam suckles, his tongue sliding saliva thickly.

"God, Sammy, I l…" Dean breaks off, pulling his fingers without warning out of Sam's mouth and then slipping again between Sam's legs. "I like…like fucking you so much…" He works his finger into Sam, thrusting against Sam's hip at the same time. "You drive me so fucking nuts…"

Sam feels like he can't _breathe_ , certainly not enough to speak as Dean fills him with another spit-slick finger, rocking them over his prostate…

At once, there's a crunch of tires on asphalt; headlights flash. Dean pushes Sam flat, further into the stair's shadow, shielding him from sight. Sam moans softly and Dean nips his earlobe. "Shhh…" Dean murmurs, still slip-sliding his fingers deep and slow. "Somebody might hear you."

Sam swallows, dry and loud, pushing back against Dean's hand. "Dean—" he tries, but his voice won't come, and he _can't_. "Dean—"

Dean leans his head against Sam's shoulder. "You want this, Sammy? You want me to fuck you?"

Sam doesn't trust his voice anymore. He just nods.

…and then gasps as Dean's fingers leave him.

"Shh," Dean says a second time and there's the sound of a zipper. A moment later Dean's back, one wiry arm banding around Sam's stomach and the hard length of him sliding between and into Sam. This time Dean whimpers, his face rubbing hard against Sam's arm like a cat marking territory. "Sam…" he whispers, rusty and needful. "Oh God, _Sam_ …"

Sam braces his left arm firmer against the stairwell siding and brings his right down to cover Dean's, pressing it harder into his skin.

Then there's no more time for words, or niceties, or sentiments that neither of them are any good at. They left it too long, teasing it out over the long hours of the day. There's only the flat sliding crash of bodies, hard and fast and the stifled sounds of impact. Slowly, Dean drags his hand down over Sam's belly, taking Sam's with it, until his fingers spider over Sam's aching cock. Sam locks his fingers over Dean's and together they stroke him, rough and quick as the slam of Dean's thrusts.

The orgasm comes _up_ through Sam, seemingly from his toes, cannonballing up his shaky legs, into his balls, rocketing up his spine and then back down to come out his spasming cock. Sam can feel the cords standing out on his neck and down into his shoulders; his mouth opens and he turns his head to bite down on his arm, afraid of the noise he'll make.

A second behind him, Dean lets out a gasping grunt and flattens Sam into the stairwell siding again, pulsing and swelling inside of Sam until Sam can't tell his hazy post-orgasmic warmth from the heat of Dean spreading within him.

Their knees give way at approximately the same time, and Dean slips achingly out of him as they slide slowly down the wall to the ground. At the last second, Dean tugs Sam hard so he ends up in Dean's lap rather than ass out on the cold ground.

It's possible Sam's really grateful, even if it's nothing he'd ever tell Dean.

"Fuck," Dean breathes, shaken.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, feeling too fuzzed and stupid to contribute more intelligently.

The smile—that delighted little-boy smile—creeps over Dean's face and he cups the back of Sam's neck and pulls Sam down to kiss him, a down and dirty interplay of tongues and teeth. Sam's eyes close and he leans into it, exhausted and sated and entirely disinclined to do much else.

"Don't go to sleep," Dean warns him, his fingers still roaming over Sam's hair and clothes and the bits of skin he can reach.

"M'not," Sam lies blatantly and unrepentantly.

"Sam, I'm serious." Dean wriggles a little bit.

Sam just nods. "Mmm-hmm."

Dean shoves Sam off. Sam makes a sad, disappointed noise in his throat.

Muttering under his breath, Dean pulls them up, both together and tugs Sam towards their room. Sam stumbles through on autopilot, eyes closed and lets Dean propel him. At the foot of the bed, Dean plants a hand between Sam's shoulder blades and pushes.

Sam hits the bed with a soft _oof_ and reaches up for the pillow, dragging it under his cheek. His feet hang off the bed, but they often do. After a second, Dean collapses next to him, breathing hard. "You're fucking heavy, dude."

Sam slurs something even he doesn't understand, turning and curling into the heat of Dean's body. Dean sighs and then slides closer, fitting into Sam until they're interlocked like puzzle pieces. "Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean says, softer, and there's the brush of lips across Sam's hairline.

It's possible Sam mumbles something into the skin of Dean's neck; something very like _love you, man_ , but it's not anything either one of them would admit to hearing or saying…and anyway, Sam's drunk.


End file.
